Some critics will tell you that despite Lee Tamahori's
overplotting of Marc Moss's adaptation of James Patterson's
novel, "Along Came a Spider" is one of those thrillers that
allow you to check your brains at the door. Not true. Did the
journalists all go for popcorn when Detective Alex Cross and
Special Agent Jezzie Flannigan (nice spelling) engaged first
in a discussion of psychology and then of philosophy? This
may have been Phil. 101 but imagine the interest that must
have been aroused in the audience with a product placement
for university education. Says Cross in discussing what
makes us choose our careers, "You do what you are." "Not
so," replies Jezzie, every hair in place, even gram of makeup
undisturbed despite the excitement of the discussion..."You
are what you do." Now if that doesn't remind me of one of
the last century's major conjectures of aesthetic, ethics and
epistemology, what will? Every schoolkid knows that the
two cops are debating existentialism vs. determinism. The
first believes that we're born pretty much a blank slate, we
commit ourselves to a course of action (like film reviewing),
and that becomes our identity (in my case, a critic). The
second--which I'm likely to buy simply because Monica Potter
is prettier than Morgan Freeman--is that we're born with our
career virtually written across our faces. "You have a
bouncing film critic, Mrs. Karten," is what my obstetrician
said--"a welcome addition to the already overcrowded
field."

Does this deliberation have much to do with the theme of
the picture? Ah, indeed it does, because "Along Came a
Spider" tells the story of a kidnapper--a Bruno-Hauptmann-
copycat-kidnapper to be specific--who whisks away a lovely
girl of about twelve to his boat. He doesn't want money, he's
not a perv. He wants attention. Unusual guy. He wants the
media to treat him fairly, and then maybe he'll release the
kid, maybe not. What we in the audience are prompted to do
is to leave the theater debating whether he was born to want
this notoriety or whether he first kidnapped and then had to
decide whether breaking the law was his true calling.

As the villainous Gary Soneji, Briton Michael Wincott doesn't
get too many witty things to say, and that's no way for a
major Hollywood studio to treat a miscreant. Remember,
though: he's up against Detective Cross, so named because
he has one to bear (he messed up a sting operation resulting
in the death of his partner), and has now plunged into a new
case through which he seems to redeem himself.

The picture has the usual appurtenances of the genre--
latex masks (including one worn by a middle-school teacher
that went undetected for two years), laminated hands (to
avoid fingerprints during the teacher's tenure in the kind of
school within which I wish I could have enjoyed my career), an
assortment of guns with silencers including a 1924 Turkish
musket, and of course the gold standard of tinglers: c'mon
let's twist again!

Listening to Detective Cross psychologize and philosophize
and guilt-trip, you'd think that, Great Scott! Maybe the title of
the movie comes from a quote that he's about to give any
minute: "Oh what a tangled web we weave/ When first we
practice to deceive!" But no, the spider of the story is a
Lindbergh nut who treats his prey to tea with honey, wraps
her in a blanket when she jumps from his boat in an escape
attempt, gives her blankets and allows her free access to the
bathroom. Like the Monica Potter character, the little kid
played by Mika Boorem never misplaces a strand of hair
despite her reluctant vacation on a boat, and is not fond of
her teacher despite the gratis tutoring and tea.

Speaking of afternoon tea and British-born rogues, this film
is of the cookie-cutter variety not too different from Morgan
Freeman's usual vehicles like "Kiss the Girls," which is also
from the pen of "Spider" novelist James Patterson. Kid's
kidnapped, parents give hell to the police for not doing
enough, turf wars erupt, guns go off. There's an exciting
chase as millions in ransom are taken to the fame-seeking
scoundrel, a chase that no one could possibly believe
involving calls made to pay phones around DC's Union
Station with a particularly flamboyant transfer of jewelry
through a completely closed subway window. What the heck:
Freeman is always a pleasure to watch, ditto vanilla-pudding
Monica Potter. So why not.